Reprobate
by IsabelleBrown
Summary: Jeanne Cerasi was just a bank secretary minding her own business when a chance meeting with an unsettling stranger leads her into danger. Jack proves himself as a man not to be trifled with and a man who won't be denied when it comes to getting what he wants.


A/N and Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters nor did I make money from posting this story. This story idea was gleaned from a comic I read a few years ago, The Killing Joke, in which the Joker had a wife, Jeannie. I wanted to explore if it were even possible for the Joker to have a relationship with another person that could lead to him marrying. This is not a story trying to explain the origins of the Joker. This story will be dark and there will be some nonconsensual elements, but not rape. Based in Nolanverse.

* * *

**_What, then, will be your fate? Beyond a doubt you are selected as the material of some new experiment. Perhaps the result is to be death; perhaps a fate more awful still. - Rappaccini's Daughter, Nathaniel Hawthorne_**

* * *

_Two years before the events in The Dark Knight..._

* * *

The cold afternoon air wrapped itself around my like a meaty hand; pressing against my throat, strangling with dampness. Pale gray clouds resembling moldering cotton balls clotted the sky above my head. Scraggly trees lifted their branches aloft like arthritic old women with knots lumping along the wood and only a smattering of leaves still holding on for life.

Each leaf still dotting the trees was verdant in the center but yellowing along the edges as they curled in themselves giving off an oddly ruffled appearance; like old fashioned-petticoats in need of a good cleaning.

My breath was rising in little white puff as I tapped my foot impatiently. Pulling my jacket closed, I shivered as the wind picked up. I turned my wrist and checked my watch. _Ten of four._ The shadows were stretching ominously along the withered grass; creeping like blackened fingers.

The old house squatting among the dying trees was one my boss was determined to unload from the bank's roster of foreclosures. Perched on the edge of Marleyville, only a few miles from Gotham City and Blüdhaven, the property consisted of two acres of mostly wooded land with a two bedroom, two bath house in need of massive renovations. The house was a bungalow built in the 1920's and had some great features like hardwood floors, architectural details, a clawfoot tub, and a fireplace.

A contractor from Blüdhaven had purchased the property from an elderly couple with the intention of flipping the house to make a profit. Sadly for him, right about that time is when the bottom fell out of the real estate market. He couldn't unload the property, or any of his renovated properties, and we ended up foreclosing.

Gotham National Bank took nonpayment very seriously.

Rob Olson, my supervisor, was the head of the credit collections department. A short man with a receding hairline, thick auburn mustache, and perpetual scowl, he was not a pleasant person. Although I was only the department's administrative assistant, Rob often sent me out to meet with potential buyers of bank owned property.

I was to simply show the property and leave.

Today was different; I'd already been waiting almost an hour for the interested party to show up.

I was pulling the cell phone from my purse when a rattle caught my attention. The sound of a car coming down the drive echoed in the quiet. A battered looking brown Oldsmobile sedan with a large crumple on the driver's side door and orange-brown rust ringing the wheel wells came into view. I could hear a slight sputtering sound from the car's engine even as the slight stench of burning oil teased my nose.

The car wasn't long for this world.

My own little Honda Accord was getting up there in age, but still ran like a charm and sparkled in the sun like a deep blue sapphire. The car had been a present when I scored my first job at Gotham National Bank; my father had been ridiculously proud. He had told me I probably wouldn't get a decent job since I had no desire to go to college. Sixteen years later, I was still working at GNB and my tough little Honda was still running.

The driver pulled his Oldsmobile up next to my car and parked.

He sat for a few long minutes, his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly, as he stared straight ahead at me. I couldn't see his features, just the outline of his body since what little light there was poured down from behind him.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the man exited the car.

The first thing I noticed was the fact he was quite tall and fairly slender. His posture was terrible; he slouched with his shoulders. He was wearing a strange mish-mash of clothing consisting of dark brown trouser pants, a stained t-shirt with the 80's Van Halen logo on the front, battered converse sneakers, and a long, tan raincoat.

He stared at me through long strands of greasy dark blonde hair; small curls forming at the ends. The eyes were what captured me. Dark, intense, and piercing orbs like a twin pair of obsidian jewels studying me. The expression in those eyes made me shiver… precisely because there was no expression. He reminded me of a shark and I was frightened.

Swallowing my anxiety, I forced a smile on my face. I was thirty-four years old and I wasn't going to behave like some sort of mindless junior high chit. I'd met a lot of loons showing bank owned properties and talked to my fair share when transferring calls at the office. There was no way in hell I was going to be intimidated.

I stepped forward and held out my hand. "Good afternoon, I'm Jeanne Cerasi. You must be Mr. Kerr?"

He gave one nod. "Yeah." His eyes dropped to my hand before flickering up to my face. "Sorry I kept you waiting. Traffic on the Mulaney bridge was bad."

_Great, just great._ I thought with an internal frown.

The Mulaney Bridge led from downtown Gotham City to Blüdhaven and Marleyville. I needed to follow Route 756 back and I would have to cross Mulaney if I wanted to get back to the office in a timely manner.

Sensing Mr. Kerr was not going to be polite and shake my hand; I reached into my pocket and pulled out my cell phone. "Wonderful," I mused in a voice that expressed the exact opposite. "Would you excuse me a moment?"

Mr. Kerr stared at me through his curtain of dingy hair and nodded once before walking past me toward the house.

I dialed Rob and to my shock, and everlasting gratitude, he picked up right away.

"Rob Olson, Gotham National Bank Collections, how many I help you?"

"Rob, its Jeanne," I turned and watch Mr. Kerr climb the rickety steps to the sagging porch. "Mr. Kerr just showed up and told me the traffic on Mulaney is pretty bad. It's already four o'clock. Would you mind if I headed home after the showing?"

"Not a problem, Jeanne. If Joe's interested in the property, tell him to give me a call." Rob seemed to be in a pleasant mood. "Have a good night."

Pleasurably surprised, I ended the call and dropped the phone back in my pocket.

_Joe Kerr… Joker?_ Poor guy – his parents had a cruel sense of humor.

I made my way up to the porch; avoiding soft spots but not the inevitable creaks. "Did Mr. Olson tell you anything about the property?"

"Yeah." Mr. Kerr threw off an aura of anxiety. He carefully kept his face hidden beneath his curtain of oily curls and turning just enough that I was facing the side of his head. "Did Olson tell you anything about me?"

Mr. Kerr's voice was soft, surprisingly so considering his appearance, with a slight, nasally undertone with unusual emphasis when sounding out 's' and 'r' consonants. Iron lay just beneath the softness sending a shiver running through me.

I had a sense I never wanted to hear him angry.

"Cat got your tongue?"

I shook my head. "Sorry, I was lost for a minute there. Not really, Mr. Olson just mentioned you were interested in the property and asked me to escort you on a viewing."

Mr. Kerr gestured toward the door. "You going to do the honors?"

I fished the keys out of my pocket and thumbed through them until I found the master key for 324 Sycamore Street. The lock gave way with a peculiar popping sound that elicited a deep, thoughtful _Hmmm_ from Mr. Kerr. Thankfully the door's hinges were well oiled and the door opened without as much as a squeak.

"Ladies first," Mr. Kerr stated quietly as he held the door and gestured for me to pass.

His fingernails were ragged as though he chewed or picked at them, but the nail beds clean and pink. I could smell the scent of musky skin, fabric softener, rubber, and just a faint hint of something burnt. Keeping my eyes down, I murmured a thank you and went inside.

A clicking sounded and he sighed. "No electricity, huh?"

"The bank only keeps the water and heat going as necessities…"

"Uh-huh," Mr. Kerr gave a disgruntled snort. "How am I supposed to judge the repair bill if I can't _see_ the place?"

It was true; the inside of the house was already gloomy due to the surrounding trees, but the late autumn light was steadily dying. The shadows were growing in the corners like wraiths. Within fifteen minutes it would be too dark to properly view the place.

"I apologize. Perhaps we should look around before the light is entirely gone."

Mr. Kerr gave a silent nod before wandering around the room. He checked the windows before examining the fireplace and the floor. He grunted upon opening the closet door. "Mildew at the very least." He left the closet wide open before drifting into the kitchen. "What a dump. This place is worse than the pictures. Has the bank tried to maintenance the house at all?"

My cheeks were on fire. "Mr. Kerr, did Mr. Olson explain Gotham National Bank's policy on foreclosed property? We did in fact pay to have a new roof installed…"

"What about all this?" he spread his arms wide.

The kitchen wallpaper might have been cheery once, but time and abandonment had led to yellowed, frail paper curling up at the edges. The appliances, which were described in the inventory roster as white, were thick with dust and a terrible ashen color. The linoleum floor was chipped and deeply discolored with enormous spots in the center. The cabinets were grimy, although still salvageable, and the countertops dinged and pitted.

"Surely you didn't expect the house to be in tip-top shape?" I asked in exasperation. "This was originally purchased by a contractor to renovate and flip."

Mr. Kerr turned. "Tell Mr. Olson I'll give him a call in a few days. I need to mull this over before I commit to anything serious." He turned on his heel and left me standing in the dilapidated kitchen.

I listened to a car door slam and the roar of an engine starting followed by a peculiar _put-put-put_ sound.

Wearing a frown, I crossed the small house and locked it securely. Only when I was in my car and headed home did it occur to me that I had not caught a glimpse of Mr. Kerr's face beyond those piercing eyes. Too tired to care, I fought traffic all the way back to Gotham despite avoiding the Mulaney Bridge.

* * *

Three days later I found myself in Rob Olson's office.

I didn't have the privilege of an office, merely a desk stationed just inside the door of the credit collections department along with several row of old, fire proof filing cabinets behind me. There was a picture on the wall behind me of the sea; worn and colorless. I had bought a fern and placed it on one of the cabinets, but it too looked as though it had seen better days.

Rob's office was not large, but he had a shiny new desk and coordinating office furniture in cherry. Pictures of his family dotted the walls along with Texas Rangers memorabilia. A large window behind his desk flooded his office with natural light – for a moment profound envy flooded me.

He leaned back and regarded me with a sly grin as he spun a baseball between his chubby fingers. "Joe just called me."

I gave Rob my patented 'who the heck are you talking about look'.

Rob raised one eyebrow. "Joe Kerr? The guy interested in 324 Sycamore Street."

"Oh yeah," I tried to feign interest and failed miserably. There was a pile of foreclosure filings on my desk growing by the minute that I had to get to GNB's attorney to look over; time to chit chat was a luxury I didn't have.

And, in all honesty, Joe Kerr had creeped me out.

Rob frowned as he continued. "It seems Mr. Kerr is going to buy the property so I need you to drop off some paperwork to him…"

"Rob, please don't ask me to meet Mr. Kerr." I regretted the words the moment they escaped my lips.

"Jeanne," he sighed and sat up a bit straighter; his grip on the baseball tightening. "I know Joe is a little out there and I can respect your reluctance, but I need your help. I have a board meeting to attend in one hour and this is going to be an all day affair. Can I count on your cooperation?"

I nodded my acquiescence.

Rob smiled broadly. "Great! I'll make sure you have the information before you leave. You'll need to call him and stop by his apartment this evening in order to drop off the papers."

The last thing on God's green earth I wanted was to see Mr. Kerr after dark… at his apartment. However, I needed to keep my job. "Give me his number and I'll give Mr. Kerr a call when I get back to my desk. I have to get up to Larry and Andrea's office with the foreclosure filings as soon as possible. I think Larry will be at the same meeting as you."

"Wonderful," Rob chirped cheerfully. "I have Joe's number right here." He handed me a post-it-note in lavender with a phone number scrawled across it in his legendarily difficult to decipher writing. "Tell Larry I said hello." He waived his hand at me. "Better get going, Jeanne, you know attorneys don't like to be kept waiting."

I forced a false smile to my face as I stood.

The phone was ringing off the hook when I reached my desk. "Jeanne, for crying out loud, Mr. Paulsen is losing his mind up here." The normally sweet voice of Laurie Gentry grated in my ear. She was the administrative assistant to Larry Paulsen, the head attorney for Gotham National Bank. "He needs to be at the board meeting later. How much longer do you think you'll be?"

I sighed and grabbed my cell phone from my purse. "I'll be right up with those files. I'm sorry, Laurie, but I was in a meeting with Rob."

"I see," She chuckled. "You must be _way_ behind."

"No joke," I replied gathering up files and the lavender sticky note; shoving my cell phone into the pocket of my trousers. "I'm on my way."

The ride up in the elevator was spent on the phone trying to reach the elusive Mr. Kerr. He picked up on the fourth ring. "Yeah?" His voice was curt, high-pitched, and nasally; as though cheesed off someone dared actually call him.

"Mr. Kerr, this is Jeanne Cerasi. I'm Mr. Olson's assistant at Gotham National Bank. I showed you 324 Sycamore Street a few days ago."

"The dame in the Accord," Kerr stated. "I remember just fine. Whaddya want?"

"Mr. Olson asked me to drop off some papers to you this evening in regards to the house. Will you be available?"

A sigh gusted in my ear. "Guess so. Are you familiar with the Narrows?"

My heart sank. "No."

"I didn't think you would be." Kerr hesitated for a moment. "Where do you live?"

Shock roiled through me. The idea of this guy knowing where my apartment was put the fear of God into me. I swallowed a large lump in my throat. Rob would be livid pissed if I didn't meet with this client, but I wasn't comfortable with the idea of him showing up on my doorstep.

"Are you still there toots?" His voice sounded impatient.

I took a deep breath. "612-C Mallory Street Apartments."

"Classy," he snickered before sobering. "I had a feeling you were when I first set eyes on you. I'll drop by around nine." The sound of a dead phone line buzzed in my ear.

Swearing under my breath, I stuck the phone back in my pocket before juggling my files and being rudely jostled back and forth as I stepped off the elevator. My day had just gone from bad to worse. I began to wonder if my job was worth all this aggravation.

* * *

My entire evening had consisted of anticipation and dread. I hardly ate and ended up biting my fingernails ragged as I huddled on the couch listening to a rerun of _The Bachelor_. The already small room was shrinking by leaps and bounds as I sat waiting for the inevitable knock.

The shrill ringing of my cell phone drew a squeal of terror from my throat like a pig being led to slaughter.

Feeling ridiculous as I looked around the room and drawing a deep breath before picking up the phone. "Hello."

"Jeanne, darling!" A breathy female voice enthused. "What are you doing tonight?"

Relief poured through me. "Hey Vera, I'm waiting for one of Rob's clients to pick up some paperwork."

"Well that sounds dreadfully boring."

I sighed. "How about terrifying?"

"Is he a weirdo?"

"I'm not entirely sure, but I'm leaning toward a yes."

"Bummer, I was going to ask if you wanted to go out to dinner with me and Sal."

_Sal Maroni_… he was a high-ranking captain in the Gotham mob and reported straight to old Carmine Falcone, the head mobster himself. Everyone called Sal the Italian and despite the fact I met him once and he was every inch the gentleman, I had no desire to eat my dinner anywhere in his immediate vicinity. There was a distinct coldness in his blue eyes I found frightening.

Vera had been my friend for years. She had once been an administrative assistant to one of the bank's vice president's. Once she met Sal, Vera had thrown her career and self-respect away in order to become Maroni's mistress.

She was a good person at heart so I had to let her down gently.

"I promised Rob so I really need to stay here and take care of this."

"Coffee tomorrow at Starbucks?" Vera asked hopefully.

"Sounds great," I murmured. "Maybe we can catch a show this weekend."

"I'll program you into my I-Phone."

I traded goodbyes with Vera and no sooner had the call ended when someone began to rudely bang their fist on my door. The thumping went on and on unabated. I hurried across the room. "I'm coming!" The last thing I needed was one of my neighbors to call the police.

I had sense enough to look out my peephole.

Joe Kerr was on my doorstep. He suddenly leaned forward and eyeballed me through the tiny glass spyhole. "Are you going to open the door or what?"

Reluctantly, I turned the bolts and removed the chain before opening the door. "Mr. Kerr…"

He edged his way by me being very careful not to touch me even accidently. Smacking his lips, he turned his head and seemed to take in the apartment. "Nice place. Do you have beer?"

I stared at his back in shock. "Uh no, I have wine…"

"Figures," he snorted before throwing a glance my way over his shoulder. "You're a wop aren't you?"

Indignity flared through me. I crossed my arms over my chest. "Don't speak to me like that, Mr. Kerr. Would you like something else?"

"Coffee," he retorted brusquely before heading straight for my sofa and plunking himself directly in the middle. "_The Bachelor_!? Here I thought from your clothes and your apartment you had some kind of taste." Kerr seized the remote and began to jam his thumb against the buttons. "How is it that you get hundreds of channels with cable and there's never anything on?"

I figured the remark was rhetorical. Instead I headed into my small kitchen and began brewing a pot of coffee. I picked my least favorite coffee cup from the cupboard; I had no intention of keeping anything he touched. I had a sense there was something about him like a virus – one touch and he could infect you bringing only sickness and death. "Cream and sugar?" I called out.

"Black," he replied in his nasally voice.

I poured the coffee into the mug and brought it out.

To my shock and horror, he had turned off the television and had my photo album in his lap. He was hunched forward, greasy curtain of hair blocking his face, and was flipping through the pages quite efficiently.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Kerr never looked up and kept flipping; my eyes were glued to his ragged fingernails. "I was bored. Hey, nice looking family, kiddo, for a bunch of wops." Before I could respond, he slammed the album shut and unceremoniously dropped it on the coffee table. I started at the ominous thump and nearly sloshed hot coffee on my hands. He made a lip-smacking sound and settled back against the cushions of the couch. "Are you gonna give me the coffee or drink it yourself?"

I was trembling as I set the mug in his outstretched hands. "Careful," I advised through numb lips. "It's very hot…"

"Pain is nothing to fear." He advised me before raising the steaming mug to his lips and slurping noisily. "See," Kerr pronounced in a lecturing tone of voice. "Pain in nature's way of letting you know you're still alive. I assume you heard the old saying – 'no pain, no brain'."

"Yes," I mumbled.

Kerr slurped more coffee. "You make a good cup of coffee and here I thought maybe you had no use at all." He downed the rest of the mug before setting it carelessly on the top of the quilted pink cover of the album my mother had made for me years ago. I watched in helpless despair as a coffee ring began to appear around the edge of the mug in the fabric. "To continue with my previous discourse, pain is a necessity in life. Only the weak and the liars claim pain is not needed." Kerr slapped his hands together and I jumped. "So where are the papers, toots?"

I crossed the room and grabbed the file from its place on the breakfast bar. I turned and froze to find Mr. Kerr staring at me through the curtain of his hair; the light cast shadows over what little of his face the oily mane didn't cover. Only those terrible, piercing dark eyes were truly visible. I had the most horrible sense that I was in the presence of a demon from hell.

It took all of my strength not to fall to my knees and cross myself and begin praying to the Holy Mother.

"You look a little pale, Jeannie." He tilted his head. "You don't mind if I call you, Jeannie, now do you? See, I have a feeling that we are going to be friends."

"Friends?" I managed to choke out.

He seemed amused and laughed; a peculiar, high-pitched sound somewhere between the sound a hyena makes and a wail of pain. My stomach was knotted up, my knees trembling. Finally, Kerr stopped laughing and nodded once. "Yeah, _friends_, Jeannie and we're gonna have some good times."

I stumbled my way across the small room and handed him the file.

Kerr snatched it without touching me and flipped through the paperwork like a pro. He uncapped the pen I had secured to the papers and began signing in sloppy cursive while muttering under his breath as he did so. Finally, he capped the pen, dropped it in the folder, closed the file and tossed it dismissively to one side of the sofa.

"There, you can tell your boss I signed," he opened the tan raincoat he was wearing and began pawing through an inner pocket. I noticed Mr. Kerr's outfit today consisted of a deep moss green pair of trousers, threadbare, a clean, but frayed brown sweater, and his dirty Converse sneakers from the previous day. It almost looked as though he'd tried to make himself presentable with whatever he had. Somehow, this only made me feel worse. Suddenly he hooted with delight and dropped a wadded up piece of paper on file. "Aha! I have the cashier's check for the sales price. So when do I get the keys?"

I rubbed my hands together. "Mr. Kerr, I'm afraid real estate doesn't work that way. There are lawyers and title searches and…"

"Have Olson give me a call," Joe Kerr interrupted. "Or better yet, give me your cell phone. I don't like lawyers and I need to get this cleared up so I can start working on the house. I need a place to live and the Narrows isn't my cup of tea."

I didn't bother to argue and handed Kerr my cell phone. He didn't ask me Rob's number and entered it while humming happily under his breath. "Is this Rob Olson? Oh good." He paused for a moment. "No, you can't talk to Jeanne, she's busy. She just told me that a cashier's check isn't good enough for you or the bank in order for me to get the keys to the Sycamore Street property."

Kerr listened for a few minutes to Rob's droning voice before interrupting him. "Look, you want to get rid of the property, I want to buy it. That being said, I don't want to be bothered with lawyers and title searches and all that establishment crap. You cash the check, Jeanne here brings me the keys tomorrow afternoon at the Sycamore Street house. End of story." He listened another moment. "Good decision, Rob. Talk to you later."

Kerr turned my phone off and tossed it on the sofa on top of the crumpled check and the real estate portfolio. He sighed and smacked his lips from behind his curtain of hair. "See, no lawyers needed, toots. Nice outfit, very business-like." He raised his hand and gestured at me with his long fingers. "So the good news is that we get to see each other again tomorrow afternoon. Make sure you wear something less fancy, I'm gonna put you to work."

I froze my mouth opening and closing rapidly before I finally found my voice. "No, Mr. Kerr, I will bring you the keys and that is the end of our association."

He stood slowly like a desiccated corpse rising from the grave. There was something altogether terrifying in the deliberate, strong manner in which he moved. "No? You don't want to be a friend of mine, Jeannie? Is that what you're saying to me?" His voice had dropped to a dull, coarse growl punctuated by sibilant pronunciation of his 's's' and the over-emphasis on his 'r's'.

Though his face was cloaked by his hair; it fell in such a manner that those terrible dark eyes were staring at me like little jagged pieces of glass. I hadn't once seen the man's face. I vaguely wondered as I stepped back from him why he was hiding behind a dirty, unkempt mop of hair.

"What are you doing?" I gasped as my back met the wall and Joe Kerr blocked any escape by placing a palm against the plaster on either side of my shoulder.

He was staring down at me with dead eyes. The light was coming behind him and cast his face in shadow so that I still couldn't see him properly. "I'm deciding what to do with you, Jeannie. See, I like you, but I don't think you like me all that much. In fact," Kerr leaned down and pressed the side of his head against my temple. "I think you're afraid of me."

I shivered as his breath warmed my ear. He smelled surprisingly good; musky with just the faintest hint of citrus. Kerr was wearing aftershave… the thought floored me. First the decent, though shabby, clothes and now he had cologne on. I swallowed tightly. "You're a pretty scary guy, Mr. Kerr."

He laughed, a low, manic rumble bubbling up from his chest. "I like your honesty, Jeannie. I am a scary guy." Kerr pulled himself back but kept his arms firmly pinned in place. "Call me Jack."

"I thought your name was Joe…"

"Oh, I have _lots_ of names, sugar pie," he sing-songed before sniggering. "I happen to prefer Jack."

"Jack," I forced his name from between numb lips. "I need you to leave."

He chuckled before stepping away from me. "Oh, I'll leave. Just keep in mind, Jeannie, I hate to be disappointed. If you don't show up tomorrow afternoon one o'clock sharp at Sycamore Street with my keys, I'll be very unhappy." Jack reached out and tickled me under the chin like I was a toddler. "I would hate to mar all that pretty, pale skin of yours."

Abruptly Jack jammed his fists in his raincoat and turned on his heel; stalking, slouched over, to the door. He didn't bother looking back, but opened the door and stepped through with one hand on the door knob. "Make sure you lock up tight, Jeannie, there are all sorts of weirdoes in Gotham." Without further ado, he slammed the door behind him so hard a picture of the Virgin Mary fell off a nearby wall and landed with a crash onto the floor.

I'm not ashamed to say that I wept.


End file.
